Lone Calder Star (Calder Saga Book 9)

by Janet Dailey

Except Rutledge, of course.

  PART THREE

  A shining star,

  A rainy night,

  A Calder loves,

  But something’s not right.

  Chapter Twelve

  Shortly after dawn the fire was out, and the exodus of the firefighting units began as the focus shifted to searching out hot spots and hosing down the still-smoldering hay bales next to the ranch yard, a task that required the services of only a single fire truck and its crew.

  Standing at a kitchen window, Dallas had a clear view of the charred landscape to the south. Where the hay bales had been, there was a long, black heap of ash and cinder with only an occasional golden scrap of unburned hay glinting in the morning sunlight.

  With no more wisps of smoke coming from the hay pile, one of the firemen was busy stowing the hose in the truck. A second man had already shed his protective gear and stood talking to Quint.

  But it was the tired slouch of Quint’s shoulders that claimed her attention. There were smudges of soot and ash on his jeans and denim jacket. Dallas suspected that a closer inspection of his clothes would reveal a collection of burn marks where sparks had landed.

  After an exchange of parting words, Quint backed a step, then turned and headed toward the house in a slow, leg-weary walk. When she heard the clump of a booted foot on the porch planks, Dallas moved away from the window and crossed to the kitchen cupboards.

  The back door opened and Quint walked in, bringing with him the smell of smoke and wet ash. His glance traveled around the kitchen and came to a stop on her.

  “I hope you still have some coffee left.” Half turning, he closed the door, shutting out the rumble of the fire truck’s motor as it started up.

  “Just made a fresh pot.” Dallas reached into the upper cabinet for a clean cup. “The fire truck’s leaving, is it?”

  “Yeah.” Some of his fatigue crept into Quint’s voice. “There’s still a couple of guys on the fire line, making sure there’s nothing smoldering. They’ll hang around most of the morning, just to play it safe.”

  Quint shrugged out of his jean jacket and gave it a halfhearted toss onto one of the kitchen chairs. He was shirtless beneath it. Just for an instant Dallas was unnerved by the unobstructed view she had of his lean-muscled torso as he walked over to the sink. But one glimpse of the contrast between the bare flesh across his back and the grimy color of his face, neck, forearms, and a long swath down the front of his chest, and Dallas understood the practicality of his actions.

  “I guess the fire marshal will be out either this afternoon or tomorrow,” Quint said as he turned on the faucets and adjusted the water temperature.

  “I suppose that’s standard procedure.” She filled his cup with coffee and tried to ignore the distraction of all that hard, bare skin. It was impossible. “You did tell them about the man you saw running away.”

  “I told the fire chief.” Quint soaped his hands and forearms all the way up to his elbows until a gray lather covered them, then rinsed it off under the faucet. “You and I both know it was arson. Proving it might be something else, though. More than likely it will simply be labeled ‘suspicious.’”

  Dallas stared at him in surprise. “Why only ‘suspicious’?”

  “Without any evidence of cause or some type of accelerant, arson becomes difficult to prove.” Bending, Quint splashed water on his face and neck, then reached again for the soap bar. “As dry as that hay was, a cigarette lighter is all it would have taken. We can only hope the arsonist was stupid enough to leave it behind—assuming that’s what he used. Although it could just as easily have been one of those small portable torches they make nowadays.”

  “If they found something like that, then that would be proof, wouldn’t it?” But Dallas didn’t have much hope that it would occur.

  “It would be proof, and evidence that a crime lab could trace.” Eyes closed against the stinging lather, Quint scrubbed at his face and neck.

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.” Dallas removed a clean hand towel from one of the lower drawers. “Rutledge would never allow any of his men to make such a foolish mistake.”

  Quint nodded an agreement and ducked his whole head under the faucet to rinse off the soap, not caring that he got his hair wet. When he straightened up and started to grope for a towel, Dallas placed the fresh one in his hand.

  “Thanks,” he said and pressed it first to his face, then down and over his neck, and lastly wiped his hands and arms. The sooty grime was gone from his face, exposing the fatigue that pulled at him. He dragged in a deep breath, then sighed it out. “That’s better. At least now I feel halfway human.”

  “You look it too,” Dallas retorted in light jest, although there was nothing remotely amusing about her response to the sight of him standing there, his skin gleaming with a lingering dampness, moisture making black spikes of his eyelashes and emphasizing the gray of his eyes.

  Quint made a last swipe at the wetness along one side of his neck and glanced curiously around the kitchen. “Where’s Empty?”

  “He fell asleep in his chair about two hours ago. He went to have a relaxing cup of coffee before heading out to do the morning chores and fell asleep almost the minute he tipped his head back.”

  “I forgot all about the chores,” Quint muttered in irritation.

  “Don’t worry. They’re already done.” Dallas found it difficult to keep her glance from sliding down to his tanned chest and the crown of dark hair in its center.

  “Thanks.” His eyes warmed on her. A slow smile curved his mouth as he turned at right angles to her and leaned a hip against the sink counter, the towel still clasped between his hands. “Speaking of thanks, the chief asked me to pass along his. The men really appreciated the sandwiches and coffee you carted out to them last night.”

  “I can hardly take credit for that. It wasn’t even my idea.” There really wasn’t any reason for her to continue standing there, but her feet seemed rooted to the floor. “While we’re on the subject of coffee, though, I already poured you some.” She gestured to the cup on the counter.

  “Thanks.” Quint twisted the towel over his hands in a final wipe and started to set it aside, then hesitated and lifted it close to his face before laying it aside. “It smells of smoke now.”

  “Everything does,” Dallas countered.

  “You don’t.” His gaze returned to her, something darkening his eyes, something that had her pulse skipping. “You smell of strawberries.” He reached over and lifted the lock of hair that rested on the front of her shoulder, fingering it lightly. “It seems right—a strawberry scent for a strawberry blonde.”

  “Does it?” Her voice was suddenly husky, and it wasn’t from the effects of the smoke.

  “Yes.” His response was little more than a low murmur. He swayed closer to her, then paused, a wistful smile edging the curve of his mouth. “You don’t know how tempting you look, Dallas. Or how tempted I am to—”

  He never finished the sentence. Instead, his head made a slow dip toward hers, his hands staying at his side, making no move to gather her into his arms. An inner voice warned Dallas to step away—now—while she still could, but she didn’t listen to it.

  Her lashes fluttered shut as his mouth moved over her lips, warm and exquisitely tender, yet full of aching need.

  Thrilling to it, Dallas melted against him, a desire of her own clamoring within.

  Her hands slid over the tapered firmness of the back she had longed to touch, exploring the complex roping of muscle and sinew. Then, and only then, did she feel the circling of his arms draw her more fully against him.

  The kiss deepened seemingly of its own accord into something hot and wet and greedy. Everything swirled together, arching and straining, striving for something more. When his mouth rolled off hers to travel hungrily over her cheeks, eyes, and brow, Dallas pulled in a trembling breath that seemed to lodge somewhere in her throat.

  “This is something I’ve wanted to do
,” Quint admitted, “almost from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “What stopped you?” But Dallas knew she had, at least in the beginning. A man worth having needs encouragement, and she hadn’t shown him any, even though the attraction had been there from the start.

  Quint raised his head, his fingers tunneling into her hair as his gaze wandered over her face in a kind of visual caress. “It didn’t seem fair to get you caught up in this battle with Rutledge.” He smiled crookedly. “Then you went and involved yourself anyway. I’ll never forget how you stormed out here that day.”

  She remembered it, too—the fury, the frustration, and the anguish—but for an entirely different reason. “Why did you kiss me that day?” Needing to renew contact with him and shut out the fear, Dallas rubbed her lips over his chin, ignoring the scrape of his whiskers.

  “I don’t know,” Quint murmured. “I guess I was hurt and mad. Anger was all I ever seemed to arouse in you, and I wanted exactly the opposite.”

  “You definitely got your message across,” Dallas declared. “Coming out of nowhere like that, it scared me a little.”

  It still did when she tried to think beyond this moment. But there would be time enough to consider what tomorrow might hold. It was enough to savor the here and now.

  “I knew I’d scared you with that kiss. I—”

  “Shhh.” She pressed two fingers to his lips. “None of that matters. Not now.”

  Her lips were quick to take the place of her silencing fingers. His arms tightened around her as his mouth opened moistly on her lips, taking them whole.

  Everything quickened and rose inside her, blood rushing hotly through her veins and all her senses sharply intensifying. The invasion of his tongue brought with it a bold sensuality and something else—a kind of keening sweetness that had its own brand of glory. Dallas arched closer to the hard length of his body, letting it burn its impression on her.

  Desire and discovery reigned, making them both oblivious of the muffled slam of a door and the faint thud of footsteps across the porch. They were absorbed too much in each other and the power of what they shared.

  On the porch, Boone cast a backward look at the charred remains of the round bales and the fire-scorched landscape that stretched beyond it. His glance lingered there. He derived a sense of satisfaction from knowing that it had been his hand that caused all this devastation.

  He felt strangely empowered by the sight. It was there in the gleam of his eyes when he turned back to the door.

  The screen door squeaked in protest when he opened it. As he lifted a hand to rap on the door, Boone automatically glanced through the windowed upper portion of the door. He paused at the sight of the pair, locked in an embrace that could only be described as passionate. The gleam in his eyes took on an interested glitter.

  The voyeuristic side of him was tempted to watch, aware that, in Echohawk’s place, he would be tugging off the redhead’s clothes and spreading her across the kitchen table in another minute. Before his imagination reached the point where Echohawk plunged into her, irritation surfaced that he hadn’t suspected there was that much wildness beneath the Garner woman’s cool poise.

  Boone rapped sharply on the door and watched them pull apart before giving the knob a turn. As he stepped inside, the two separated to face him. Echohawk’s expression instantly hardened at the sight of him while Dallas stared at him in open shock. Boone rather liked the glimmer of fear in her eyes.

  Echohawk never gave him a chance to speak, demanding, “What are you doing here, Rutledge?”

  “Max asked me to come.” Actually he had ordered him, but Boone wasn’t about to admit that. “We heard about your fire last night.” He let his glance stray over his shoulder to the door’s windowed top and the blackened area visible beyond the ranch yard. “It burned a big chunk of your range. Looks like it must have covered a good three or four hundred acres.”

  “Closer to five,” Quint confirmed, his gaze never losing its steely look.

  “That much?” Dallas murmured in surprise, slashing Quint a look of concern.

  Boone ignored that, his curiosity shifting to something else. “What about your cattle? Did you suffer any losses there?”

  “Considering the last fire crew pulled out less than twenty minutes ago, I haven’t had a chance to check on the stock. But all the gates were open. As long as they weren’t trapped against a fence, they should have been able to escape the flames.”

  “You never know,” Boone said, deliberately countering Quint’s optimism. “Cows can be dumb creatures, especially when they panic. And a fire would cause that. As dry as it’s been around here, I’m surprised we haven’t had more fires. It wouldn’t take much of a spark to ignite one, and once it starts burning, it can spread rapidly.”

  “It was no accidental spark that started this one.” The flat, hard statement teetered close to an accusation.

  Boone feigned surprise. “How do you know that?”

  “About the same time I discovered the fire, I saw a man running away.” Quint paused. Something that wasn’t amusement curved his mouth. “I even managed to get off a shot at him.”

  Surprise splintered through Boone at the news that it hadn’t been old man Garner wielding the shotgun. The discovery that it had been Echohawk rankled.

  But Boone had played too many hands of poker to let his reaction creep into his expression. “I hope you hit him.”

  “Unfortunately he was out of shotgun range,” Quint replied.

  Boone knew better; he had the bandages on his back to prove it. “Too bad. The sheriff might have had a chance of catching him then. Now he’ll have to make do with just a description of your arsonist. You did get a good look at him, didn’t you?”

  Quint cocked his head to one side. “Is that why Max sent you over here? To find out if I got a good enough look at your man to identify him?”

  Boone shook his head and smiled broadly. “You’ve got us all wrong. I think you’ve been listening to her grandfather too much,” he said, indicating Dallas with a nod. “That isn’t why I’m here at all.”

  “Then why are you here?” Dallas said in quick challenge, using anger to mask the fear that lurked around the edges.

  “Because Max learned that the fire destroyed your hay,” Boone replied smoothly. “Along with passing on his regrets for the loss of it, I’m to tell you that we’re sending some hay to tide you over until you can get more delivered.”

  “That’s generous,” Quint murmured dryly.

  “In Texas, neighbors help neighbors,” Boone responded, shrugging it off while secretly relishing the irony of the gesture.

  On the heels of his remark, there was a movement in his side vision. Boone glanced around as Empty Garner padded into the kitchen in his stockinged feet, looking all mussed and sleepy-eyed.

  “Any time a Rutledge helps a neighbor, you can bet he’ll stab him in the back before he’s done.” The accusation was accompanied by a layer of loathing. “Don’t let him fool you,” Empty said, issuing the warning to Quint. “Him sending you over hay, it’s all for show, and to fool people into thinking he didn’t have anything to do with your hay getting burned.”

  “His motives for sending it don’t really matter,” Quint replied with a touch of grim resignation. “We need the hay.”

  “Echohawk is more pragmatic than you are, Garner,” Boone observed with a complacent smile. “He knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  The old man snorted. “Might be smarter if he did. Look what happened at Troy.”

  Boone gave him a puzzled look, failing to make the connection between Troy and the Trojan horse. Rather than admit his lack of knowledge, he switched back to the original subject. “Like I said, we’ll be bringing the hay over some time today.” He paused a beat. “I can’t say for sure when it will be, but probably this afternoon. You might want to let Dallas know where you want it stored. That way you won’t have to hang around here waiting for it to show up. I i
magine you have a lot of other things you need to get done.”

  Quint made no reply to that, saying instead, “I’ll expect to receive a bill for the hay.”

  Boone shrugged his indifference. “If that’s what you want.”

  “I do.”

  Boone reached behind him for the door. “Let us know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”

  “It’d be a big help if you’d just leave the Cee Bar alone,” Empty retorted. “But it’s not likely you’ll do that.”

  Boone shot a look at Dallas as he opened the door. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  When the door closed behind Boone, Dallas turned away in agitation, fighting the turmoil inside, angry and scared both at the same time.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Rutledge sends over hay that’s been treated with something that will make the livestock sick,” Empty grumbled behind her.

  “He wouldn’t,” Quint stated. “Not on hay that could be traced directly back to him.”

  “Maybe not,” Empty conceded with reluctance. “Where’d I put my damned boots?”

  “I think you left them in the bathroom,” Dallas answered. “At least they were there when I took my shower.”

  “That’s right. I forgot I took them off in there,” he murmured. “I would’ve remembered if I hadn’t got so mad at how righteous that Boone was acting. Hell, he just came over here to look at the damage and gloat.”

  He all but stomped out of the kitchen. Dallas glanced after him. There was a light touch on her shoulder, and she turned with a jerk, finding herself the subject of Quint’s probing gaze.

  “What’s wrong?”

  After a quick, stiff shake of her head, she sighed in frustration. “Boone. The Rutledges.” Her voice was tight with bitterness and anger. “Somehow, in some dirty underhanded way, they always get what they want.”

  “Not this time.” The calm certainty in his voice brought a twist to the line of her mouth.

  “I know you think it will be different this time, but it won’t,” Dallas said. “They don’t care how long it takes. That’s the advantage they have. And during all that time, it will be just one hassle on top of another. Machinery sabotaged, hay burned, hired men scared off, cattle auctions rigged, credit refused. And that’s just a small part of the trouble they’ll cause. How long do you think it will take before the Calders decide this ranch isn’t worth all the trouble and grief it’s given them and throw in the towel? One year? Two? Five?” she challenged, pain and anger mixing together. “I had a front-row seat when they broke my grandfather—broke his heart and his spirit. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”